


wake the sun

by psikeval



Series: cabbage: a love story [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2732711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Krem’s grin fades into a quiet smirk, his eyes warm and amused, and Cullen does not forget how to move his legs because he is a grown man, a leader of soldiers, commander of the Inquisition’s army.</p><p>He breaks the silence by coughing loudly, because he is also an imbecile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wake the sun

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [queerly_it_is](http://queerly-it-is.tumblr.com), who was kind enough to let me run amok with his Krem/Cullen idea, and to all the lovely encouraging people who read this and beta'ed. ♥

Sera has replaced his tent with cabbage.

It shouldn’t be possible. For one thing, that she should even know which tent Cullen’s claimed as his (the one he patched himself, badly, and can’t quite inflict on anyone else), let alone find it tucked in the bottom left corner of the third wagon and— and do _this_. And of course the day’s been long and warm and humid, perfectly conducive to the... maggots. Yes, those are definitely maggots, squirming their way through his very own sack full of rotten vegetable.

Maker only knows where his tent has gone now, giving shelter to some new friend of Red Jenny back in Adamant or hurled cheerfully into a tree; either option seems equally likely.

Cullen sighs, looks up at the heavens, and tries very hard not to inhale.

“Having some troub— _oh, sweet fucking void_ , that’s foul,” says Krem, recoiling with his hand pressed over his mouth and nose. “Ugh.” He backs away a few steps more and coughs. “Do you mind me asking what you’ve got there? Snack gone wrong?”

“One of Sera’s pranks. Gone exactly as intended, I’m afraid.”

It looks, for several moments, as if Krem’s hand is also stifling a laugh. “Ah. I—yes. I see.” He clears his throat and drops the hand, his face perfectly solemn. “Keeping it for sentiment, then?”

“What?” Instinctively, but very unwisely, Cullen looks back at the blackened mess of decay and thriving vermin. “No! Of course not. I’m just…. not sure what to do with it now, exactly.”

“Not sure? Then here, let me show you. You there!” he shouts at a rather impressive volume, pointing. “Yes, you. To me, soldier. Come on, haven’t got all day.”

The man who approaches, still wearing his blue-and-silver Warden armor, looks a little more ‘desperately conscripted to fill the ranks’ than ‘ _in war, victory_ ,’ but perhaps it isn’t fair of Cullen to judge. The wardens have, after all, been through a lot in recent days, no matter how much of it they brought upon themselves.

“What’s your name?” asks Krem, hands linked behind his back like a general lazily inspecting his troops, and the warden freezes in his slouch, taken aback.

“Er— Nebbins?”

Krem nods swiftly. “Happy to be here, Nebbins? Excited to champion our cause? Full of spit and righteous fire, ready to serve the holy might of the Inquisition? Glad the Herald of Andraste didn’t throw you off the highest tower in Adamant?”

“Uh,” Nebbins says, glancing between them. “Yes, ser? I guess so. Ser.”

“Right.” In a few swift motions, Krem takes the sack from Cullen, pulls the drawstring shut, and tosses it into the Nebbins’ arms. Cullen can’t help wincing just a little in sympathy. “Take that out in the woods somewhere and drop it, for Andraste and glory and all that.”

Warden Nebbins quickly moves his toxic burden into one hand, held as far away from his body as possible. “Right away, ser.”

“Preferably,” Krem agrees, and waits until the man has hastened into the trees on the other side of camp before spreading his arms and grinning. “There, see? The wonders of delegation."

“‘ _Andraste and glory and all that_ ,’” Cullen repeats dryly, smiling only a little.

“Chargers aren’t the most pious lot you could find, you might’ve noticed.”

“You don’t say.”

There’s a moment, just a little too long, where Krem’s grin fades into a quiet smirk, his grey-hazel eyes warm and amused, and Cullen does not forget how to move his legs because he is a grown man, a leader of soldiers, commander of the Inquisition’s army.

He breaks the silence by coughing loudly, because he is also an imbecile.

“Well, anyway,” says Krem, carefully not laughing at him, “looks like you’re in need of a tent. You can share mine, if you like.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Krem shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me. Unless that’s just your polite way of saying you’d rather not.”

“No! I didn’t…” He rubs hopelessly at the back of his neck, unsure how to say what he means, because Cullen has never been _good_ with people, but he’s seen the space Krem keeps around himself, a circle of the people he trusts not to be careless or cruel with what he’s fought so hard to find. It’s not a boundary Cullen would see pressed just for a place to rest his head.

Now if only he knew how to express a single word of that.

“Hey.” Krem nudges his shoulder with the knuckles of one hand, hard enough to be felt. “Don’t hurt yourself, Commander. If I say it’s all right, it’s all right. Simple enough.”

“Thank you, then.”

“My pleasure,” he says with another easy smile, and Cullen—

Cullen is breathless, heart swooping in his chest, unsure where solid ground has gone.

 

\--

 

“Inquisitor let her get away with that?”

“The Inquisitor _helped!_ ”

“Shit,” Krem manages before laughing so hard he ends up gasping for breath, shaking merrily against Cullen’s side. “Oh, shit, of course she did.”

They’ve retreated back to Krem’s tent with a bottle of some red Tevinter wine that is, in all likelihood, not actually called Egregious Folly—but it sounded like that, after drinking enough ale, and at this point its name seems largely irrelevant. It is delicious. It might be delicious; the most salient fact now is that they are drinking it. Have drunk it.

Are, perhaps, somewhat drunk.

“It’s my _desk_ ,” Cullen says, hearing that plaintive note he hates that only comes out when he’s half-asleep or a little too drunk. Possibly both, in this case. “I use that desk for things, it can’t just wobble around when I’m writing something. Makes the report all— wobbly.”

Krem pats his back in sympathy and then leaves his hand there, idly rubbing circles over Cullen’s shirt. “Could be worse. Middle of the day, back when we’re in Haven, and I go to ask the boss something. And I swear, half the stable hands are in that tent, and he’s…” He makes a gesture with his free hand that is, blessedly, too clumsy to be interpreted. “No. I’ll spare you the mental images.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Yeah,” he nods, fingers curled comfortably at the back of Cullen’s neck. “You should be damn grateful.”

“I am,” says Cullen, and kisses him.

He didn’t plan to do it. He didn’t _not_ plan on doing it, either, and Krem’s mouth is soft and welcoming, sword-rough fingertips gentle on the side of Cullen’s face, the heady glows of drink and want warming him from within, but—still.

Just for a moment, he pulls back. “Is this…?”

“Fine with me, if that’s what you’re asking. Stop me if you want to,” he kisses the scar over Cullen’s lips, careful and deliberate, “and I’ll do the same. Fair?”

“Fair,” he barely manages to whisper before kissing Krem again and again, half-desperate to memorize the taste of him. Cullen traces his fingers along the close-shaven sides of Krem’s hair, groans softly around the slide of Krem’s tongue in his mouth, has ended up, somehow, nearly in Krem’s lap before he can quite figure out what happened.

_(Remember to ask yourself: how did you get here?)_

It shouldn’t matter. A bit too much to drink, a few moments slipping by unnoticed in the dark—but the panic of losing control, of losing himself in anything, has never been easily swayed. The old fears creep in silent and sure, and if they won’t let go, neither can he.

He ducks his head, breathing hard, and Krem’s hands move to more neutral territory, tapping a silent question against his ribs. For a while he waits, but when Cullen still can’t bring himself to speak, too embarrassed and uncertain, he asks, “You okay?”

“Do you mind if we stop? Or—for tonight, I mean, unless—”

“Cullen,” Krem interrupts, which is a Maker-blessed kindness even if his voice is distractingly throaty and warm. “Want to do this again sometime?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, perhaps too quickly, judging by the flash of Krem’s smile in the near-dark; at least the blush spreading over his own face won’t be visible in here. “I mean. Yes. I’d like that, if you…” Cullen shakes his head, grins ruefully. “Maybe when I haven’t been drinking.”

“Works for me.” Before moving out of arm’s reach, Krem presses a kiss just under his jaw, quick and affectionate. It’s almost enough to make Cullen reconsider, take it all back and beg to be touched again. But not quite. “Still want to sleep here?” Krem asks while toeing off his boots.

“If that’s all right.”

“Sure. I bet your hair’s ridiculous in the morning.”

 

\--

 

Cullen wakes at sunrise out of terrible, agonizing habit, unsure where exactly he is or why his skull is trying to split in two. He curls further into the welcoming darkness of his blanket, groaning miserably, only to be struck soundly across the back.

“No. Shut up.”

“Ow.” Ideally, his voice would be less wretched, less reminiscent of a whimper.

“I don’t care.”

“I’m—”

“Sleep,” Krem orders in a raspy, exhausted growl that serves to remind Cullen that they _kissed_ last night, more than once, and he somehow managed not to ruin it.

He does fall asleep again, by some miracle, though when he wakes again a few hours later he feels even worse. His mouth is now almost painfully dry, and everything just— hurts, his skin hurts and his stomach is waging a vengeful war against him every time he moves.

Egregious folly, indeed.

Water. He should go drink water. Several moments are spent lurched half-upright, looking for his boots, before realizing that he never took them off and is, in fact, still wearing them under the blanket.

“Andraste guide me,” Cullen mutters while stumbling miserably into the sunlight, though if the Maker’s bride were planning on providing Her wisdom, She might have offered a few choice words on not drinking in the first place. At this point, well. Andraste probably knows a lost cause when She sees one.

At least the creek is blessedly close, the water cold and clear when he cups it in his hands and drinks (and drinks, and rinses out his mouth until it feels like part of his body again instead of a stagnant receptacle for poison).

It occurs to him, when no longer parched, that his lips are still a bit swollen from last night and he can’t recall the last time anyone kissed him.

There’s a giddy, quavering feeling in his chest when he remembers, when he brushes his fingers over the scar above his mouth. He stifles a grin, purely out of habit because there’s certainly no one here to see—and even if they did, why would it matter? He’s a grown man. He knows what he’s doing.

Oh, Maker, he has no idea what he’s doing. It’s been _years_. That must have been painfully obvious. And certainly being drunk and clumsy had done him no favors—

 _Shut up_ , Cullen reminds himself, and splashes water on his face for good measure.

The walk back is far less painful, at least, with fewer grudges borne against the sun and nearby songbirds. It would almost be a nice day, if he could spend it avoiding the outdoors entirely.

A few ragged-looking soldiers are beginning to stir throughout camp as he circles around, nodding to any who acknowledge him and trying to look official. Commanding. Not like a man who’s too hungover to know which direction he came from. Luckily, Krem’s tent is fairly easy to spot, once he’s facing the right way, its side marked with the faded heraldry of the Chargers.

Cullen steps inside and the first thing he notices is Krem himself, who’s awake and sitting up and in the middle of getting dressed. He glances over his shoulder and starts to say something, but Cullen has already launched himself outside, nearly tripping in the process.

“Sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t— That was thoughtless of me. Please, forgive my rudeness.”

“It’s… fine,” Krem says, almost cautiously, and an expectant silence follows.

 _Shit_. Perhaps he should go, before he makes this any worse. There is, presumably, another foolish misstep lying in wait, something even worse than repaying Krem’s kindness by callously invading his privacy, and he has no interest in finding what that new low might be.

“Cullen? Still there, or have you gone off to live with the cabbages?” 

Despite being mortified and an absolute idiot besides, he can’t help laughing in the general direction of his own feet. “I’m, uh. No. I haven’t.” 

“Lovely. Get in here.”

It’s a tone of voice that Cullen is not inclined to disobey.

When he ducks back into the tent, Krem only tilts his head and offers a small, encouraging smile. He’s wearing exactly what he was before, which is to say a close-fitting black shirt without sleeves, the cloth dense and carefully tailored.

“D’you mind lacing the rest of this? Turns out the other’s got demon goo and blood on it. This one’s a bit trickier, but at least it’s clean.”

The lacing runs along Krem’s side, diagonal under his arm, almost impossible to reach while wearing it. Easy enough for Cullen, who tugs the laces carefully until Krem nods and says _good_. The muscled lines of his bare arm are distractingly close as Cullen leans in, the dusting of freckles on his shoulder barely visible against the brown shade of his skin.

“Perfect. Thank you,” Krem says when he’s done, reaching for another, warmer-looking shirt and shrugging into it. “I’m disappointed, by the way. Thought your hair would look much worse.”

Cullen glances upward, despite not being able to actually see the state of his hair, and then grimaces anyway because he has a pretty good idea. “There’s only so much it can do until I’ve washed out all the ash and ichor.”

“You’re saying there’s still hope.”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Hey.” Krem reaches out, gently taps his knuckles on the back of Cullen’s hand. “Want to talk about it?”

Of course he means last night, not ten years ago, but it’s both, isn’t it? It’s always both.

“There are some things I should tell you, to— maybe back at Skyhold. That— you should know, if— if we— you deserve to hear it, first. It’s a bit of a long story. I still want to kiss you,” he adds helplessly, because in that, at least, he has no doubts.

Krem grins at him. “Now, or generally?”

“Both?”

“Good answer,” he says approvingly, leaning in, hands braced on Cullen’s thighs. The brush of his lips is gentle, almost chaste, until— well, until it isn’t, and Krem is kissing him with an intent that’s dizzying, that leaves him clutching at Krem’s arms for some kind of anchor. Cullen makes a soft pleading noise that will most likely haunt him for weeks, even if he can feel Krem smiling into a very deliberate kiss on his cheek.

When he leans back again, Krem makes a face that’s oddly sympathetic.

“All right, honestly. How terrible is my mouth right now?”

“I—” _didn’t notice_ , _actually_ , but that seems a little too revealing. “Um.”

“Because it feels like some sort of swamp thing curled up and died in there. I should go take care of that. And you’ve got commander-y things to do, I’m sure.”

“Probably,” Cullen agrees without a great deal of conviction.

Krem laughs at him quietly, a low affectionate sound that doesn’t help his composure in the slightest. “Anyway, I’ll see you back at Skyhold. You know where to find me.”

“Yes.” Like a promise to himself; a certainty he can keep.

They part ways without ceremony, Krem slipping outside while Cullen goes about putting on his armor, preparing for the twenty miles left of their journey. He should speak to the Inquisitor before they move out, check in with his lieutenants and the forward scouts. He should take care not to ride anywhere near the Chargers today, if he’s to have any hope of focusing at all.

(He must never, under any circumstances, let Sera find out that she helped.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Wake the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9115747) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton), [SomethingIncorporeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingIncorporeal/pseuds/SomethingIncorporeal)




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